


Rhythmically Speaking

by orphan_account



Series: Chamber Music [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Borderline crack, M/M, Music, Smut, String!Lock, rite of spring, stringlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 14:59:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was supposed to be crack but then I weirdly serious'd. Sherlock wants to have sex to Rite of Spring. John's not sure how that'll work, but hey-- what could possibly go wrong? Sexy times, music fangirling, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhythmically Speaking

It is exactly 3:17am. It has been 9 days, 16 hours, and 48 minutes since the last case came to a close (“barely even a six, John, a waste of both of our time”).

John Watson’s eyes fly open, his heart seizing just slightly in his chest as 221B is filled to its acoustic brim with an asymmetric, percussive assault of chords. The bed beside him is cold; Sherlock clearly couldn’t sleep. (No surprises there.)

While John is fine with violin playing or even piano in the middle of the night, _this_ is something altogether different and very much not okay.

“This” referring to the 60 decibel blasting of Stravinsky’s _Rite of Spring_.

John sucks in a deep breath before yelling with as much vigor as he can manage at this hour: “ _SHERLOCK HOLMES!”_

Amazingly, it seems the madman actually heard him above the cacophony, as said noise stops abruptly and Sherlock comes bounding into the bedroom with an only slightly deranged grin on his face.

“John! I’ve just had the most inspired idea concerning our relationship!”

 _Oh dear god,_ John thinks. He drags a hand over his face. “Did you have to inspire the entire neighbourhood?”

A streak of confusion blinks across Sherlock’s face, but it quickly fades with a dismissive wave of a hand. “Of course not, John. Why would I want to share our relationship with the neighbourhood? They’re all idiots.”

“I was talking about the noise, Sherlock. Blasting aggressive Russian music at half three in the morning. Bit not good.” John doesn’t have time for explaining to Sherlock, though he swears the man is intentionally obtuse sometimes, just to pretend like he doesn’t understand humans when he very much does.

“But Stravinsky _was_ my inspiration!”

“Still doesn’t make playing it at that volume okay.”

Sherlock huffs, and John can practically hear his eyes rolling. “Fine. I apologize for disrupting your slumber.”

John is caught off-guard by the apparent sincerity of the statement, and mumbles a “thank you” back.

“Now, John. Don’t you want to hear my inspiration?” He waits impatiently like a kindergartener wanting to show his parents a drawing he’s exceptionally proud of.

“Is this a matter of life and death?” John grumbles.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

“Then it can wait until morning.”

“But you work at the clinic in the morning.”

“And you can’t tell me your grand inspiration over breakfast?”

“I don’t eat breakfast, John.”

“Sherlock!” John barks. “You know what I mean. Stop being so bloody difficult.”

“I…” Sherlock considers. “It can wait until morning, but I would prefer to tell you now. So that I can test my theory.”

“And how long will testing this theory take?” _So I can get back to sleep,_ John mentally adds.

“Approximately thirty nine minutes and three seconds. Perhaps less, depending on the  effectiveness.”

“Sherlock, I can’t stay up another _hour_ while you tell me some nonsense theory about surrealist orchestral works.”

“The thirty nine minutes includes us having sex, if that helps,” Sherlock adds.

John glances over at the clock. It’s 3:26 now. Grudgingly, he knows that even if he says no, Sherlock will take the next thirty minutes trying to convince him, telling him the whole story, but without the sex. John may as well get something out this disruption to his sleep cycle.

“Alright. What’s your big inspiring theory that warranted waking me up and bribing me with sex.” He doesn’t really say it as a question.

“I’ve been thinking about your musical tastes, especially with regard to the selections you’ve played during our last few sexual encounters.”

John half grunts, half snorts at the bizarre way that Sherlock discusses their sex life. He supposes he shouldn’t expect anything different, but it’s still amusing. “And what, pray tell, have you concluded from all this?”

“When we have sex _with_ music playing, it is often disrupted by tempo changes in the music, since both of us are trained musicians and we subconsciously alter our rhythm to fit the music. Sex with music playing in the background tends to be less satisfactory and shorter by at least 17 percent than sex without music playing.”

John narrows his eyes, thinking back to the last time they had sex and whether there was music playing. He was tempted to ask how Sherlock was measuring “satisfactory” but decided it wasn’t worth it.

“However,” Sherlock exclaims with a glint of excitement in his eyes, “I believe this is due to poor musical selection, as we both enjoy music, it really makes no sense for it to have a detrimental impact on either of our sexual performances.”

“Right. So your brilliant solution is?”

“Stravinsky.”

John raises his eyebrows. “How does that answer the question?”

“Think about it, John. We need something that is consistently the same piece of music to be less disruptive, hence choosing a longer, orchestral piece instead of a playlist of shorter, rock or pop songs that average only three minutes and disrupt our pace.”

“But Stravinsky is all over the place! How is that, I don’t know, contributing to the rhythmic uniformity of… of our sexual performances?” John grimaces a bit at the phrasing, but he’s trying desperately not to put it in more graphic terms. That, for some reason, is just crossing a line.

“Of course it is. But it’s thematically related, since it belongs to a larger orchestra work.”

“So why Stravinsky and not, oh I don’t know, a Mendelssohn symphony? That’s a lot more, er, uniform than Stravinsky’s music.”

“Please. That plebian drivel? No thank you. A Mendelssohn symphony is possibly the most effective mood-killer outside of Anderson walking in. Good lord, I’m sorry for even saying that.”

John can’t help but agree, making a horrified grimace of disgust at the thought of Anderson walking into their bedroom while in the throes of it. John closes his eyes and tries to imagine something—anything—else.

“Anyway. Rite of Spring is a good starting point. It builds up slowly with that lovely bassoon solo, and has some lyrical sections which we could dedicate to what you consider ‘foreplay’, despite my _repeated_ assurances that it isn’t necessary.”

“Two people, Sherlock. There are two people involved in sex. I am one of those people.”

Another dismissive hand wave. “Anyway, the rhythm is unusual, I’ll give you that, but fortunately, I’ve memorized the score and am confident in my ability to thrust in time with the beat without confusion. Of course, this means I would be ‘topping’, as you say, unless you _also_ know the rhythmic distribution and would prefer…”

“Jesus,” John’s brain supplies helpfully.

“Anyway, if you’re amenable I think we should try it out. And I did tell you we could have sex if you listened, so we could try it now.” Sherlock trails off a bit at the end, a bit like a shy school girl asking a boy to the dance.

John’s brain is reeling. He’s heard Rite of Spring, of course. He’s even played some excerpts, but certainly hasn’t memorized the score to the point where he can conduct the thing in the middle of having sex with his flatmate-sort-of-boyfriend (though Sherlock would cringe to hear _that_ particular word, mind you). 

John is also not very sure how he feels about bottoming for the first time with _Rite of Spring_ playing in the background, of all things. Sherlock’s definitely been in charge before, but Sherlock is John’s exception, and he would really prefer to top. Perhaps he can talk Sherlock into saving this experiment for later, once John’s figured out if he’s okay with being penetrated. Or perhaps it could just be a hand/blow job, where Sherlock’s “thrusts” are his hands or mouth.

Somehow, John doesn’t think that’s what Sherlock was implying.

The silence stretches on as John tries to process what Sherlock has just shared, knowing that his brain doesn’t work fast enough for the genius even when he’s well rested. Sherlock seems to detect the discomfort, for once, and sounds achingly young when he tells John, “Perhaps you’d like time to consider it? I’m sorry, John, I shouldn’t have assumed it wouldn’t matter to you, to not be… on top.”

John smiles despite himself and pulls Sherlock onto the bed next to him, and kisses him chastely. “I love that big brain of yours, Sherlock.”

Sherlock is somewhat confused by John’s statement, but smiles in response and kisses John’s forehead sweetly.

After a few moments of resting against Sherlock’s shoulder, John pulls back from Sherlock to check the clock: 3:41 am. “Let’s do it.”

Sherlock jumps a little, clearly surprised. “Really?” he’s like a child in a candy shop.

“Yeah. Why the hell not. Let’s do it. My only request is that we put something on before _Rite of Spring_ to give me a little more time to, ah, warm up.”

Sherlock springs off the bed and dashes off to get his laptop and speakers to bring them into the bedroom. He chooses Vieuxtemps Violin Concerto No. 5to get them started—“is 16 minutes and 55 seconds sufficient build up, John?”—and removes his blue dressing gown while John sucks in a deep breath. John’s not sure if the mood of this piece is really appropriate, but he’ll take it. He’s more focused on Sherlock’s body than anything, and doesn’t really register most of the melodramatic vibrato.

John’s loosening up, muscles becoming soft and pliant under Sherlock’s nimble fingers, but when the bassoon solo signals the start of Rite of Spring, he tenses. Sherlock smiles through their kiss, and his mouth trails along John’s jaw with the trills of woodwinds.

It’s hard to say if the percussive tonguing Sherlock is delivering is _deliberately_ in time with the sporadic fanfare of brass, but it’s definitely hot, and John can feel Sherlock’s hands gripping his cock, gently yet confidently. And then—

That infamous rhythm. Sherlock doesn’t miss a beat, aggressively pumping John—more pressure for accents, lighter for off-beats. John’s not sure if he should be concentrating more on Sherlock’s hand on his prick or the music itself.

His brain is getting all sorts of confused, and he’s pretty sure he won’t be able to hear this piece without getting a hard-on.

The rhythm backs down for a few bars, and Sherlock slips his insistent hands lower, seeking out John’s arse. Suddenly, there’s lube, and Sherlock’s finger is slowly working into him, never missing a rhythm.

John registers that Sherlock is also somehow humming along with the more melodic sections. The strings build up, and a second finger joins the first, just as insanely percussive and bizarrely sexy as before.

This part of Rite of Spring starts to get complicated, and John isn’t sure how Sherlock is still concentrating on the score _and_ fingering John’s arse, but John’s not about to complain.  John’s sure that, come morning, he will be _incredibly_ confused how this piece of music is even remotely sexy, but he has to admit that Sherlock’s hypothesis is proving to be fairly accurate. It’s not a constant, unchanging rhythm that would leave them bored and chaffed, but somehow it all goes together.

John would never admit it out loud, but it helps that Sherlock is a musical genius, and can ‘conduct’ such a complex piece of music in the bedroom.

The music lowers the pace, so the frantic fingering calms down a bit as John gets more comfortable with the feeling of Sherlock’s long, violin-calloused fingers stroking his insides. Tender kisses are laved along John’s clavicles, his chest.

The percussion and the brass comes back to life, and Sherlock expertly finds John’s prostate on beat, as though he’s choreographed the sex they’re having (John wouldn’t be surprised), and the blares of trumpets seem to match up with the spikes of pleasure John’s having.

In the back of his mind, he remembers that he should probably be returning some of these ministrations beyond quiet moans and stroking Sherlock’s muscles, but Sherlock seems so intent on staying with the timpani that John isn’t even sure if he notices what John’s doing (or not) to him.

The French horns take over for a bit, and Sherlock’s fingers slip out of John’s arse. He’s not sure what comes next in this part of the music, but things start building up, and John grips Sherlock’s hips, anticipating the moment that he knows is coming. There’s more lube and then--

A timpani roll is all he gets for preparation. Sherlock pushes in, slowly but with confidence, as the strings roil in endless runs, the trumpets have a few measures of sharply accented chords that Sherlock is careful not to overdo, and then the second part begins.

Sherlock moves slowly, bonelessly within John, as the music seems to swarm around them, like it’s breathing. Sherlock and John are breathing with the music, John realizes. He was doing it without realizing it.

John kisses Sherlock lazily as his hands roam over pale skin and slim muscles. Sherlock hums into the kisses, whether from pleasure or just to keep up with the music, John’s not sure.

There’s less rhythm to this section, so Sherlock’s impeccable timing is less evident. But somehow John can still tell that Sherlock knows exactly which measure they’re at, and exactly when the next downbeat is coming. It’s clearly a favorite recording, one that Sherlock knows by heart not just from memorizing the score, but from memorizing the conductor. When the man finds time to do things like this, John will never know.

As the strings oscilate, Sherlock pushes in and out with long, smooth strokes. The oboes join in, and the pace picks up a little. John’s not sure how much more he can take when Sherlock’s fingers dance over John’s nipples with the flutes.

It’s probably some of the gentlest sex the two of them have had. Sherlock is usually so much more eager, not only for the sex itself, but somehow for the sex to be over, too. He’s never been one for foreplay, preferring to “take care of business” rather than “make love”.

Finally, the teasing is over. In a few short measures, the rhythm picks back up, and Sherlock rocks into John with a swift confidence in the asymmetrical rhythms that plagued Stravinsky’s mind enough for him to have penned.

In the back of his mind, John tries to remember this part of the piece. He’s aching for release, knowing that only knowledge of the piece will tell him when he’ll finally get to orgasm.

A lone tambourine taps out the rhythm for a bit, so John tries to make it a bit more interesting by sucking deeply at Sherlock’s lips and tongue. Sherlock growls a little at the deviation from their soundtrack, but John is insistent, and Sherlock lets him continue.

Soon enough, the brass bursts back in, and John is rewarded with the sharp drive of Sherlock’s hips into his own. The winds and strings build, and John hopes they’re getting to the end. Something tells him Sherlock’s not letting him come until the very end, no matter how climatic a section may sound to John’s ears.

John tries to remember how long they’ve been at it: Sherlock told him 39 minutes… surely they’re approaching the end?

More percussive thrusts, coordinated with aggressive kisses to match the woodwinds disrupt John’s thoughts. He thinks perhaps they need to find an abridged version of Rite of Spring, because he is _not_ going to last much longer, nor does he want to.

“Sherlock,” he groans, and despite his sensory overload, manages to make it sound something like a warning about his impending orgasm.

“SeventysixsecondsJohn,” Sherlock huffs out. He’s aching for it too, John knows. But Sherlock is nothing if not always mentally in charge of his body.

The music continues its percussive and rhythmic drive, but Sherlock grabs John’s prick, firmly stroking it, looks him in the eye and says, “Come for me, John!”

John lets go, not quite timed with the end of the piece, but in the strange silence that hangs in the bedroom.

Sherlock comes seconds after him, and while they breathe heavily, applause begins.

“It’s a live recording, Sherlock?!” John wails incredulously.

They dissolve into hysterical laughter as the audience cheers and whistles for the London Symphony Orchestra.

When they can speak again, Sherlock asks in a low rumble, “Well, John? Was the experiment a success?”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I think we ought to try a Shostakovich symphony just for contrast.”

 

 

 


End file.
